Zantaric is a wonderful place, where the lost stay lost and no one goes poking their noses into your business unless you give them reason to do so. Which was the exact kind of neighborly courtesy that The Drowned Princess relied upon. It wasn't exactly the sort of tavern that anyone would direct a newcomer to. Unless, of course, that same newcomer had a generally ill-favored look about them, like you might find "steals the silverware from grandmother's house every holiday" in their autobiography.
Those newcomers were pointed right to the Drowned Princess' front doors. Situated to the northern end of town, and rather conveniently close to the local graveyards for maximum Ill-Favored Aesthetic, it wasn't
hard to get to, but definitely not the first pub one might stumble across in need of a drink or five. Which might have been bad for business, if drinks were all the Drowned Princess served.
No, there was a reason this tavern did well no matter who had booze or not. There was a reason it remained in good repair, not a stone's throw from actual headstones. There was a reason it, in this place of all places, was considered by a certain portion of the population to provide a very crucial service. Because besides mead and beer and the spiciest soups anyone outside of Thanatos had ever tasted, the Drowned Princess served
information.
This was a den of thieves, of murderers and extortionists, of bandits and other assorted miscreants who might be on the lookout for the next available payday. And while it had been some years since the owner and proprietor of the tavern had seen his share of action, he remained a reliable source of both discretion and networking options. Discretion for the available private dining rooms in which business might be conducted with privacy, networking options for the amount of "rumours" the proprietor seemed aware of at any given time.
The Princess' regulars knew, the easiest way to find out which caravans were carrying what and through where was to ask River Feyr. But, that wasn't without its own share of cost— the regulars knew they could rely on information, but getting to the point where the tall, slender elf would divulge such information, well...
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The Drowned Princess is a moderately sized tavern with two floors. On the first floor, the large double doors lead in from the outside, where a path leads right to the stables. Just through the doors there's a few benches and hooks along the walls for overcoats and cloaks, though they're rarely used because of the rampant mistrust that seems to plague those who operate outside of the law. Almost with a touch of irony, there hangs a sign on the wall just above these empty hooks— "beware pickpockets".
Further inside this main entry hall, the tavern opens up to a wide single room littered with mismatching tables and chairs of all shapes and sizes and chipping paint colors. Each table has either a ceramic mug, or chipped vase, or some other manner of container to house a few sprigs of aromatic herbs and freshly picked mountain flowers of varying bright colors. However, the favored hue seems to be purple.
To the left is the bar, a long, well-kept surface with several stools in front of it, and several high shelves full of bottles behind it. A small swinging door sits to its left, which leads behind the bar and also through another door to the kitchens, as well as the cellar. Behind the bar on the far right side also sits a slate board, marked in a foreign language of connecting lines, with what appears to be several tally marks underneath it. Pieces of chalk sit on the ledge just beneath the slate board.
To the right of the bar and at the opposite side of the room than the front doors, is a large fireplace kept burning behind a folding grate. There seems to be a chunk missing from the topmost portion of the brickwork, roughly the size and shape of your average human forehead. The necessity for the grate, and the presence of this missing piece, is an absolute mystery that no one seems capable of solving when asked.
All along the wooden rafters, there are bits of hanging dried flowers for decoration, or chains holding small chandeliers full of rough-made candles that are rapidly beginning to dwindle too far to be of much more use. Other candles sit on the bar or along the walls to provide some light, but by far the largest amount seems to come from the fireplace itself. The few windows there are seem to constantly be shuttered closed, though this seems as much a choice by the patrons of the tavern as it is the proprietor's own— the shutters are kept shut by a small latch, and could be opened by anyone seated at the tables nearby.
There is a small door that leads out to the stables on the adjacent side of the fireplace, as well as a set of stairs that leads upwards and to the second floor hallway. Along this hallway are a few rooms. These are not set up for lodging, and possess no beds, but rather each have several chairs and a table and other such meeting-place amenities. At the far end of the hallway is a thick and heavily locked door, which leads to the staff quarters, and while still solid, seems to have taken a beating over the years. Worn and old rugs hide disconcerting stains in the wooden flooring.
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River tapped out the ashes from a long-stemmed pipe, grimaced at the bowl and scraped out the remains with one finger where the charred remains of plant matter lingered. It was a slow day, early enough into the evening as it was, and his hardened alcoholic group had already settled into their usual tables or, in the case of Ernest, at the far end of the bar near his chalkboard. Ernest was already several pints in, but through some manner of human witchcraft, had barely even begun to appear affected.
River was almost jealous— a teacup was more than enough to get him flushed and slurring.
But,
such was fate, and while he would never be able to drink his weight in beer like his honored guests, he sure could out-smoke the lot of them and still carry on a long run for days afterwards. Not that he ever had plans for such a thing, but you never knew. So River carried on refilling the bowl of his pipe, pressing the dried leaves down with his thumb before taking a small sliver of wood and transferring the fire from a nearby candle.
Taking a few easy puffs to make sure the heat caught, River shook the wood sliver to snuff it and leaned against the bar, a pale wisp of smoke curling upwards after every deep draw of breath.
